Blueberry Muffin Girl
by Out of Custody
Summary: After years of hearing nothing about her, Bill meets Hermione again. It's a long road and sometimes the end is not always the goal... M just to be safe
1. Chapter 1

**I feel like I've spent the Winter in HP-hibernation - just hoping that you will like this little short story :) Not mine, JKR is a true artist and I'm just aspiring to get reviews and followers ;P**

**ENJOY!**

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**Blueberry-Muffin-Girl**

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**I.**

Cairo was nice. Everything about it had been tempting right from day one: the sun, the sand, the outlandish food, the exotic people and their even stranger way of dressing, his work and then, of course, the fact that it was miles away from home.

2 180 miles to be exact.

And oh dear Merlin, to be out of his mother's reach for the first time in his life! To be truly so far away that she would not even consider coming to a near city for a week-end to meet up with him and see how he was doing, or to covertly sneak there to spy on him. No, Cairo was far away. So far away in fact, that his mother could count herself lucky, he sent her an owl once a month. Because really, the poor things dealt with heat and sand-storm and travel across two water-ways – and the Mediterranean was _littered _with pirates.

Being an International Owl in Egypt was probably not exactly the best job for an owl.

There was one thing about Cairo, and Egypt… and maybe even the whole of Africa, which was unsettling. Homesickness simply had to be ignored here. Because even if you employed wizarding tactics, there was not a single English Gastronomy to be found considering that Africa had had its share of colonialism between France and England. …And the Netherlands, but that was another story entirely and not for today.

Egypt especially had worked a miracle in oppressing any English, or French, set ups within its country: it simply was not tolerated. And therefore, without a little hole-away to alleviate homesickness, the feeling of yearning for home simply had to be ignored… or alleviated by another way.

Which was why, right now, he sat in a Back-Alley Café in Edinburgh, happily burning his tongue with one of the finest Earl Grey's he had ever tasted. Spread out on the table before him, were photographs of the dig he was currently working on. Supposedly it was a temple for Bastet, the cat-goddess, and if their source could be trusted there were some ancient healing scrolls hidden in there.

Gringotts, of course, was interested in those scrolls – the first to own them could claim fees for every eye laid upon them. And the Goblins were eager to strike a bargain with the British Ministry of Magic, if they managed to pull St Mungo's into the deal as well, the better. The more people depending on the scrolls, the likelier the Ministry would give in to the demands of the Goblins.

He had never been a friend of politics. It simply did not mix well with his profession as curse-breaker. He was the one to chase down what ancient politicians had tried to obscure and hide away – he dug too deep and revealed too many secrets, no politician liked that, and if any of the people whose secrets he literally dug out would still have been alive, he would be dead a few times over now.

Setting down his Early Grey, he returned his waning concentration on the photographs. The hieroglyphs, he had determined by now, signalled a hidden entrance at the back of the temple. The general entrance had already been laid bare, but there were no protections, in comparison to this entrance.

Of course, it being the front door, so to say, there was little use of protections save for the regular, warning off for thieves, lest it would look too suspicious. There was blabbering about priestesses only, and even over the millennium the wards still held strong, however, they were no feat for five determined Curse-Breakers and had crumbled soon.

The back door was his project. And everything behind it, naturally – it would be up to him to ask for help, but knowing his pride, he would never do so. Also, he was quite anxious about the loot; his gut feeling told him that this entrance would lead him far beneath the earth… past a thousand traps and right to a treasure.

If only the migraine would leave him alone.

Vision swimming, he turned his eyes from the photographs, trying to soothe his sore head by rubbing his temples, his neck, anything to alleviate the pain. If anything, it intensified. His throat constricted uncomfortably, and he knew that any minute now, he would start dry-heaving, next thing he'd know, he'd clutch the toilet and empty anything he'd eaten. Good thing he'd had a light breakfast.

"A Blueberry-muffin and an espresso, please."

The voice cut through the singing in his ears as if it were spoken into a microphone, multiplied in sound by towers of boxes – he groaned, the sensation of sickness not abating.

And then, just as he'd been about to rise from his seat and beat a hasty retreat to the restrooms, another sensation cut in. Soft, prickling… comfortable. It started at the base of his neck, heating, intensifying, splitting as invisible hands kneaded the tension out of his shoulders and the sensation washed over his head. Warmth and comfort spread where just before sickness and pain had resided and like that, the charm worked his way down his face, his eyes, carefully kneaded around his lids, stimulating their relaxation.

Sinking into the cushioned chair, he let his shoulders fall, let the charm work, for sure as day, his fingertips tingled, as they always did when in contact with magic ever since that run-in with Malfoy Senior.

He did not know just how long he sat there, enjoying the magic washing over him, working away the migraine and soreness, the stiffness in his muscles. What he knew was that when he opened his eyes again, he felt right as rain – and Hermione Granger sat, not too far away from him, pressed into a dark and secluded nook bent over an ancient looking tome – an espresso and a blueberry-muffin seated on the table next to the book.

**II.**

"_Enter, ye who fears not sickness, ye who feareth not the eyes of Death _

–_for Death is our deity, and as we pray, what we say to her is Not Today. _

_Enter, ye whose heart has witnessed darkness, ye who turned and walked from it _

–_for Dark and Light is our path and lit's the pavement with our wrath_

_Enter, ye whose soul is purged, whose hands are bloodied, but in peace _

–_for Love's our guide in this our war, and fills our intents and our cores."*_

Well, for a translation of Ancient Egypt to Understandable English, it was doable, he would not receive a Nobel Price, or even an Award for Translation, but he was no Literate, he was a Curse-Breaker and Grave-Digger, that was his job and that was what he was paid and praised for.

So… entrance was only for healers – if this inscription was to be believed. Then again, these wards had never met Bill Weasley's Iron Determination. And, convinced by this little pep-talk he found himself face to face with the entrance just a few hours later. How he ended up on his ass, despite being covered in protection Charms, and his left wrist broken, he had not so much of a recollection.

(* No it's not a pretty rhyme, it's a translation of a rhyme - translations never accurately rhyme...)

**III.**

Blueberry-muffin and espresso. Again.

Bill quietly nursed his Earl Grey, lost in his contemplation. Meredith had promised that, now that he'd forced down the Skele-Grow, it wouldn't take more than three days until he was fine again – which soothed the Goblins. They had agreed to not pull him from his project, he was the best after all – and if he would be alright in three days again, then why go over the pain to search for another, likely less versed, Curse-Breaker? No sense at all.

That's how he found himself in the Back-Alley-Café once again, sipping his tea while he tried to remember what had gone wrong, his eyes trained on the small figure of Hermione Granger, as if looking at her would inspire him.

Everything had been going as planned – he'd taken down ward after ward, slowly baring the entrance as if he would dig away the dirt. He had hit upon the last protection layer, when his fingers had started tingling with such a vengeance it had pricked and burned. And then he was on his arse, sand in his hair and his shirt, hell even in his mouth, and his wrist aching.

Again he looked over his translation. Healers only – that much was obvious. But how was the ward _still_ able to recognize him as something else than a healer? What distinguished a healer from a normal person?

Sunk in his thoughts, he caressed his still smarting wrist with soothing motions. He hadn't even tried to remove the bandage and wash off the sticky green ointment Meredith had smeared him with. He pulled a mien of contemplation: would the medic-witch be open to a little gallivanting in the Egyptian sun? Well… the Goblins might not be so happy about that, after all Meredith _did_ work for St Mungo's.

And once she realized just what kind of scrolls he was about to retrieve, she would also not hesitate to hex his balls in order to confiscate the loot. So… no, Meredith was out of the equation. Back to point zero and the question: what made medics different from other people?

About to scratch the itching skin beneath his bandages, his fingers tingled and right on cue, his wrist stopped itching – stopped hurting altogether actually. He stared curtly, rotating his wrist.

"I would not do that as of yet, you don't want to aggravate it too much." – he knew that Hermione had forsaken her solitary nook then. He looked up meeting chocolate brown eyes. "If you don't trouble it today, you'll be back at work tomorrow."

And then she left.

**IV.**

He came back to the Café the next day, curious about the petite woman whose only words to him, in five years – imagine that - had been advice on his injured hand.

Since the end of the war, he'd seen neither hide nor hair of her, and after a year of trying to mend things, Ginny's letters had slowly shortened, no information on Hermione, only Harry and Ron, who still lived at the Burrow, according to Molly's Weekly Weasley News Letter. Hermione, however, had apparently vanished from sight.

And had somehow reappeared in a Back-Alley Café in Edinburgh, munching her Blueberry-muffin and drinking her black coffee.

Still as a statue, he watched as she carefully plucked the muffin apart, with deliberate gentleness in her fingers. There was a hint decadence in her expression whenever she twisted her wrist gently to snatch the crumb of muffin she was holding captive between three fingers with her plump lips and push it into her mouth, not even chewing from the looks of it. Then again the muffin did appear fluffy and light enough to be squished against the roof of her mouth. She ate her muffin piece by piece, never taking a bite, but always tearing it apart with the loveliest face of innocence and carelessness that made it almost a seduction in its own.

Which, Bill realized, was really stupid, because since when could eating be counted as sexy.

Except, apparently, when the witch concerned was Hermione Granger, and when one Bill Weasley fell for the artless kind of seduction.

As he stood, collecting all his photos and making them disappear into a brown envelope which promptly made its way into his small, leathery duffle-bag, his only steady companion, he knew that there was only one way to ascertain his musings about the young witch – and it had to be done the Gryffindor way: frontal attack.

**V.**

"I waited for you.", she said by way of greeting – it nearly flummoxed him. Nearly, he was a Curse-Breaker after all and unforeseeable things made his money.

"That so?", he answered nonchalantly, taking his seat opposite of her, depositing his tea next to her empty espresso cup.

"Placed bets with myself. Luckily that means no money lost, sadly though it's a testament to how fucking solitary I have become in three years."

There was, apparently, a desire for her to rant and whine, but she reigned it in, before it could develop its full potential. He had, nevertheless, noticed – and wasn't one to let go of things easily.

"What, Weasley and Potter company not good enough for you?"

He'd angered her – he realized too late; she was good at masking her true face until it was too late. Specks of red appeared on her cheeks, her jaw clenched and he could see the twitch of her shoulder as she retained her instinct to go for her wand and hex him six ways from Sunday.

"Just because you decided to drop off the English surface does not mean that life there does not go on, _Weasley_." He promptly asked himself if she'd, by any chance, hung around Draco Malfoy for her to have perfected the sneer so perfectly – then again, he couldn't really say she hadn't had it before, he'd never hung around long enough to get a clear picture of her. "And if you have quite finished with forcing your presence unto me, I will take my leave." She was packed, before he could even utter a syllable. "Because believe it or not, some people actually dedicate their life to helping instead of stealing."

And with a breath of air, lemony-scented, she was gone.

**VI.**

Egypt was _hot_.

And after having had years to acclimatize to the African weather and its caprices, him saying that meant something. Of course, he was still English, but that did not mean that he wasn't tanned as hell and more tolerant of the weather swings than even most of the local populace.

But, Honoured Ra, the Great Gas Ball was bearing down on the earth as if it wished to burn it to a crisp.

Bill had patiently set up camp in front of the entrance, staring at the hieroglyphs from his position on the dunes. His fingers tingled relentlessly and, infuriatingly enough, all he could think of was Hermione Granger. The way her eyes had turned from curious to hurt and angry in the flash of a second, her perfume that still lingered in his nose and her curvy little figure hurrying away from him.

Having given her parting words some thought, he'd come to the conclusion that she was obviously aware of what he was currently working on and, very obviously, did not agree on it. He pulled a face – politics and Curse-breaking did not mix, but apparently Hermione had made politics her business. Or she was just a little opinionated hellion.

If memory served right, she'd founded S.P.E.W. when still at Hogwarts… Ron had raved about it and belittled it at every turn. It would not surprise the oldest Weasley child if the younger witch had simply made these politics her business, despite them originally not being hers. It would serve him right to run into her knife like that, careless vagabond that he was.

Slowly he stood, nearing the entrance – there was something he'd meant to try: something he'd learned long ago and which, surprisingly, was an international means of finding answers. It was ancient – so ancient that it was international and world-widely acknowledged.

Leaving his wand behind, he pressed his body as close to the entrance as he dared, hoping the contact would be enough. _"Dimitte me somniare."_ And before he could truly and well finish the spell, he felt weariness befall him.

**VII.**

_Well, falling asleep in the sun had certainly not been his best idea, he conceded when he realized that, indeed, his spell had worked. In front of him, he could see the Edinburgh Café on a rainy day. There was Asparagus on this week's menu, and the toast was off by half. He entered without taking too long to think. _

_Taking his usual seat, he waited, looking out for something. _

_And then, there it was – he could not believe he hadn't seen in before, if he wouldn't have known that this was an entirely different sphere and had therefore entirely different modus operandi. It was before him now, because that's what he needed to see. _

_Deviously the muffin sat atop his table. _

"_You know… angering her was probably the dumbest thing you've done in a while." _

_Speaking muffin – of course. He did not even examine the reasons why he was sitting vis-à-vis a talking muffin. This was another sphere: and the muggles weren't exactly wrong when they said Other countries, other customs. The only difference here was that it was actually a completely different level of awareness. _

"_I am aware. But I also didn't know she'd react like that." He shot back. The muffin developed two Blueberry eyes and lifted its top from the wrapping in an imitation of a mouth, the next time it spoke. _

"_You did not even wait until the third phrase to insult her, you baboon; you _invited_ anger. Merlin knows why." _

_The muffin sounded surprisingly like his mother when she was annoyed with him. He suppressed the quirk of his lips: _Muffin Mama.

"_I heard that." The muffin grouched. "And just so you know, young man, I won't tolerate your non-sense. And while we're at it: where the hell are your manners? You see the girl for the first time in years and you don't even possess the courtesy to greet her properly? What have you been raised to?" _

_He sat in silence. Muffin Mama was right… of course, Mum was always right. _

"_I can still hear you, you know." The muffin sniped. "And I'm fairly certain that is no way to treat a spirit you called yourself." _

_True – again. But _Muffin Mama_ seemed to be stuck. "I am sorry." _

"_Yeah well, you don't need to apologize to me. I've known you for thirty-four years now and we've had run-ins before. But this time, boy, I must admit you've done a number." _

_He pulled a face. "Can we get past the attempt to guilt-trip me and move on to constructive advices on how to make it up to the girl?" _

"_Girl?", the muffin asked non-plussed. "Girl?!", he tried again. "MAN! Open your eyes! Can you truly tell me your eyes did not see the woman she had turned into?!" _

_And right on cue there appeared Hermione, standing next to his table, hands stemmed into her hips in a surprisingly non-threatening way. She only shook her head _

"_Umm…" _

_Hermione snorted, suppressing a giggle. "Smooth, Weasley, smooth." And sat down opposite of him. "You know, there's a fairly simple way to make it up to me: and you know it too." And then she simply started to pluck apart the now motionless muffin._

**VII.**

The next time he entered the Café, Hermione was, unsurprisingly, not seen. And that was alright for him, somewhat. Of course it kind of crossed his plans for the younger witch, but he decided that his plan was still worth a shot.

"An espresso, a blueberry-muffin and a cup of Earl Grey.", he ordered silently, observing the empty nook where Hermione usually sat. His fingers tingled – he smirked. Accepting his orders, he swaggered over to it, passed the Invisible Charms and sat down opposite of Hermione. She eyed him warily.

"Hello, Hermione.", he said, pushing the espresso and the muffin towards her. "I haven't seen you in a long while, how do you do?"

There was an awkward pause in which the woman decided whether to accept his apology and grasp the offered olive-branch, or whether she would simply let him stew longer and leave.

"Busy.", she finally answered, pulling the espresso closer to her. "My boss makes me go crazy on her better days and doesn't even let me enter the Department on her worse days."

"So you decided to act like the part Austrian you are and turned the Café into your living room?"

For a second she did not answer – then she shrugged, taking a sip of her beverage. "I don't even want to know how you know – but when she does not let me into my department, I activate my beeper and return here."

"Ginny has a loose mouth, you should know. She couldn't keep the secret of your newest acquisition to herself, when she found out that there was something under your skin." He sipped his tea, burning his tongue.

"You could cast a charm, you know." The witch had observed his momentary mien of discomfort and had deducted correctly. "Unless you work on developing a camel's tongue."

He shrugged. "Not working on a camel's tongue, but it does grant some familiarity – I don't know. Why did you even get it, by the way? I meant to ask ever since I knew."

She smirked. "Mum is a royal descendant; I adore my roots and could simply not find it in me to turn my back on them completely."

"So it's an admission to your background?"

"My muggle background, yes. I chose the wizarding world, but that doesn't mean I completely turned my back on everything that makes me."

He nodded in understanding, pushing his palm against his left pectoral, where the Weasley coat of arms was forever etched under his skin. "I know where you come from."

Hermione took another sip of her espresso, effectively downing it, closing her tome simultaneously. "So, what did you originally want to confront me about?"

Bill took a deep breath – here went nothing.

**VIII.**

The Goblins wanted his arse – he was sure of it. Somehow knowledge of his fraternization with Hermione had leaked its way up to Rogok who was not happy about the whole thing. But Bill knew how to play his cards – he hadn't been working with Goblins since his graduation for nothing.

If he was quite honest, working for the Goblins, while nice and financially stable, was not what it once had been. Yes, they had their greedy tendencies, but he could live with them.

What he had difficulties with, was the way they continuously lowered his wage – hoping to push into accepting a post as lecturer – while sending him on increasingly dangerous missions that required his all. Not only that, but they had also started to view him as their property, unwilling to let him have a say in his time-table, the people he wanted to see regularly and now, apparently, also the more private aspects of his life.

"If you _need_ to find a mate then do so out of business."

Rogok had never been one to beat around the bush. But this was certainly the icing on the cake… Since when was it of any concern to them who he saw and who not? And why was he actually working on helping them forcing the ministry to agree to their selfish demands? Yes, yes he was all for equality of creatures and wizards, but _this_… well, this was certainly not the best way to deal with things.

"You know,", Hermione said one afternoon, "I really hate to say it because it means I no longer have a monopoly on my own pity, but your work sucks even more than mine."

Since then he worked on a plan to extract himself from work at Gringotts, taking the scrolls with him and taking Hermione with him in the process – he was a Curse Breaker, he was used to thinking outside of the box, surely if anyone could work out something, it was him.

**IX. **

"Good-evening, Mister Weasley."

He was shell-shocked to see a blonde witch in the place where Hermione normally sat. She was familiar, but he'd never been good with names.

"Good-evening." He said, taking his seat and placing Hermione's spoils next to his tea, casting a Stasis Charm over them. "How can I help you?"

The blonde woman smiled dreamily. "I couldn't help but overhear, by chance mind you, that you were in a somewhat… difficult situation."

He quirked his eyebrow. Had she been listening in on his and Hermione's conversations? How was that even possible through all the wards they'd set? Unless…

"I have been working on the first Magical Museum in Great Britain… and I could need a Department Head. Someone with experience, who knows his ways around digs… and curses."

Well, she cut straight to the topic didn't she? "Well… how did you come up with me, Miss…"

"Lovegood", she breathed. "Luna Lovegood. Hermione is a school-friend of mine. We had some problems at the start, but that sorted itself out soon after the … well, the incident. She came to me the other evening and proposed talking to you."

He hadn't known that Hermione could be such a string-puller.

**X.**

The next time he saw her, she beamed at him. It was so foreign a look on her that he nearly stopped dead in his tracks to take in the picture of loveliness – his _heart_ jumped, for god's sake!

"I heard some news from an old friend.", she said by way of greeting, smiling slyly.

"And I heard of a woman who pulled strings for people she hardly knows.", he returned, taking his usual seat opposite of her – she shrugged.

"You needed a way out, I had an idea, it was worth a shot. So… now that we work for the same employer, I can finally get it off my chest: I have the answer to your ultimate question."

He raised his eyebrows over his mug of tea, burning his tongue and his throat; she didn't even say a thing, she only shook her head. "How healers were different from other people?" Bill nodded, eager to finally find the answer.

"The Hippocratic Oath."

**XI. **

And that was it. No sooner had he switched sides did his life look up. The tomb could be entered without further ado when he held Hermione's hand, the scrolls were retrieved, handed over to Miss Luna Lovegood and like that he had switched employment.

Gringotts raged, tried to sue him, but short of admitting their attempt of bribery to push their own demands through, nothing could help them – and even if they would admit it, there would be hell to pay. Wisely they kept silent.

**XII.**

"She still throws you out?", Bill asked when he found her again in their Café, table littered with documents of his next dig. Hermione pulled a face.

"I think of dropping my job, but I have unfortunately no idea where to go instead."

Clearing half of the table, he allowed her space for her thick tome as well as her usual treats. Carefully he took her in. She was tired if the bags underneath her eyes were any indication, her fingers were too slender to be a sign of complete health and yet, there were curves in the right places. He could not remember Hermione from when she was younger when he looked at this older version.

Back then she'd been a walking stick, no curves to speak of, an untameable mass of curls atop her head.

Now though she was… perfect. A woman in all her rights. A healthy amount of breasts, thick thighs, a gentle dip where her waist was, a nice plump arse that he loved to watch when she walked, all wrapped up in petite-ness and topped with chocolate brown curls. Ensnaring and bewitching – that was what she was.

"Are there alternatives?"

The minute hesitation in her answer told everything. "Freelancing." She admitted finally; obviously she had given it some thought, but had put it off – Lord knew why.

"And why do you not?"

"Uncertain financials, mostly." She replied. "I would love to go and hop from project to project, as I please – but then, I don't know who would take me and what kind of projects I would be offered. I'm young and in my field of expertise, that is not exactly a bonus."

Indeed – researchers were respected as they aged.

"What if I told you that… well, my translators have a few… troubles with the texts we recovered in Memphis?"

She did not deign that with an answer, and closed her book instead, pushing it towards him. The title said it all. "What if I told you that… well, your _translators_ are infiltrated by a spy of my boss, they give her copies, she hands them to me to translate in a day. If I don't manage, I may as well hand in my resignation."

_That_ was pure, unadulterated slavery. Hermione was worth no more than a house-elf, apparently. Such a waste of that exhilarating mind.

"Well," he started, "if you are translating it anyway, only to have Miss Gordon collect the laurels then why not simply work with me instead. I'm a little ahead of my team and could use a healer's eyes for my translations, I have no idea what they are talking about."

**XIII.**

She spent her afternoons ensconced in her nook with him at her side, pouring over the papyrus scrolls, her evenings at his flat, being cooked for. Bill loved to cook for her – she was surprisingly thankful for every crumb of attention he offered her.

_Sadly though it's a testament to how fucking solitary I have become in three years._ – He remembered her saying to him on their first meeting.

He did not know yet what had happened to her and the rest of his family, Harry included, but he did not dare ask either. All he knew was that it had created a rift between them, too great to be mended – and thus, Hermione had plunged head-first into work. And had come up with a crappy job and no friends to speak of.

Luna was the only one who'd stayed at her side, and even his employer would not say what had happened. Hermione never mentioned it. He died of curiosity, but cleverly shut his mouth.

It was safe to say, hence, that within the short time of three weeks, he'd made a new friend. A beautiful friend… a friend he wouldn't mind seeing naked… in his bed… under him… moaning. Frustrated he stirred the Cream Soup.

Would she ever see him like that? Could she? Or would it be taking advantage of her loneliness if he made a move on her now? And there was still that unresolved mystery about Hermione's separation from her former friends.

"Dinner is ready!", he called from his kitchen, waiting for the answering sound through the door to his living room. A second later the witch appeared, dressed in his boxers and one of Charlie's Quidditch shirts. Maybe he'd have to thank Tefnut one of these days for the downright storm she'd had raging just as Hermione set foot outside of the Café to make her way to his flat. She'd been drenched by the time she'd reached his abode, only five minutes away from the Back-Alley – not a distance worth Apparating, which she would have deemed lazy. Being a good host, he'd offered her something dry to change into; and she looked ridiculously good in his shorts and Charlie's shirt.

"I heard the word dinner.", she smiled – it was a nice sight, and as of late he got to see it more often.

"Indeed. Sit down, soup will be there in a sec."

When she ate, he was busy not comprehending the way he gravitated towards her. She had been Ron's at one point, hadn't she? Shouldn't that be a reason to stay away from her? Why did it not bother him? Why did he want more?

**XIV. **

The day they finalized their translation, Hermione stood behind the stove. Bill had absolutely no say in that matter – and strangely enough, it did not bother him.

Instead, as she bustled in his homey kitchen, he watched her, comforted by the view she presented. Her mass of hair was pulled up in a messy knot on top of her head, a hair pin securing it in place. She was wearing a dress – for the memorable occasion – black, with small white dots, a black cardigan and dark, though see-through stockings. She'd worn red half-boots with it, adding colour to the ensemble that made it impossible to not look after her.

And right now, she danced veritably through his kitchen, singing a song that he'd never heard, but unsure whether she made it up or he'd really simply never heard of it before – his taste in music wasn't too developed (reduced to the wizarding wireless actually).

_Cross your fingers, hold your toes_

_We're all gonna die when the building blows_

And what kind of text was that anyway?

Still, watching her sway her hips in rhythm, form the syllables with her plump lips, Bill couldn't help but think that it was the most entrancing thing he'd ever heard.

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**There WILL be several chapters so if you're hooked, keep tuned and leave Reviews! And cookie for the one who finds the hidden Cameo of a nearly everyone's favourite in the chapter ;P**

**Reviews are love :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**There we go, next chapter :) ENJOY**

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**XV.**

Next to him, Hermione went rigid – Bill groaned.

Honestly, the day could not possibly get any worse. Hermione had, finally, managed to get some much needed vacation, despite her boss being adamant about her not having worked enough to deserve some. Luckily though, her time-table said otherwise and Bardilda himself had agreed to the vacation.

Bill had thought it a good time to finally get Hermione to see all of Cairo – not just the one dig he'd almost robbed to bribe the British Ministry of Magic.

However, Fate was being a Bitch. And she was being a bitch intent on fucking him every possible way, plundering every possible orifice of his life. Of all the people replacing his post in Gringotts, the Goblins had gone out of their way to enchant the stupid French bint out of her country and into their services. And Fleur, allegedly, had jumped at the proposal.

Traipsing around his former digs now turned exhibitions with Hermione, regaling her with this or that story, he'd really not thought about any magical beings still being in near vicinity.

"Beel, eez that reely you?"

That fucking French accent still had him shaking in rage. Hermione had been the one to pull them out of the situation with remarkable effort… dignity still intact – he wasn't too sure about Fleur's though. However, as soon as they had sat down in an Egyptian Café, she'd pressed for information – which was, in a way, her right. She'd just saved him from Barmy Phlegm, it was natural curiosity to ask just _what the hell_ had happened to the dreamy pair.

"Fleur had very… varying tastes. In food, as in men in appears."

Hermione, queen of reading in between lines, did not need to be told more. It wasn't until they retreated to Bill's usual flat when he stayed in Cairo only to see a mass of red-haired heads in front of it that the day had officially gone to hell and beyond.

**XVI.**

"Did Hermione ever tell you why she chose to be a healer?", Luna asked dreamily as they bent over Bill's latest loot, transferred straight into the Museums Laboratory from Greece.

"I never asked.", he admitted gruffly. "It was never a tendency of me to ask something people didn't offer up on their own."

The blonde woman shook her head. "Honestly, Bill, if that is your credo, then you and Hermione will be _friends_ until one of you dies."

When she left, the oldest Weasley realized faintly that the dainty fiancé of Rolf Scamander had just told him to grow some balls and do something. It was a very strange epiphany.

**XVII.**

"An espresso and a blueberry-muffin." Again, same order.

Bill was bent over his maps, aware that one slight miscalculation on his part would be able to send him and his team into death – Somalia was not even politically stable, lest welcoming of foreigners. And especially Westerners had trouble travelling. And women. And Westerners with women might as well be doomed. Even though they were all witches and wizards.

He knew though, this time nothing could happen – nothing. Hermione went with them, and if they only as much as glimpsed danger from afar, he'd personally see to his own demise. Yes, his little witch was a fierce warrior, but that was no reason to not ensure that she would be as far as possible from any peril.

**XVIII.**

Lemons and verbena.

It had to be her shampoo, he decided the first morning he woke up in the same tent as her. As impossible as it was to smell nice while out in the open, if there was one person who he would think able to smell nice even under the most gruelling of conditions it would be Hermione, therefore it should have come as little surprise that she _did_ in fact manage to do so. But there it was: surprisingly, despite the dirt they'd been travelling through for weeks, she still smelled nice.

Their sleeping arrangements had been changed only yesterday, when Gundula Gordon had, apparently, finally had enough of spying for St Mungo's when it sent her to one of the most hostile countries she could think of: people-, climate-, food- and accommodation-wise.

Being the only other woman besides Hermione had meant that the two of them had shared a tent, until yesterday, when the whole crew had watched Gordon finally lose all of her pride and what little face she had saved since she'd started working with them.

She couldn't stand it anymore – the heat. She was a lady for Circe's sakes, not a Sherpa. She was a city girl, not a country pumpkin. She deserved a good accommodation, and healthy food and nice company and damn it she deserved a bath in privacy and not in a warded part of some grubby oasis. She was better than this, better than them – no matter what they counted on finding, it was not worth the damn torture.

And _pop_ she was gone.

And Hermione was without a bunk-mate; and Bill had been without one since the start of the expedition. They knew each other well enough and from there on it had only been a question of moving her hammock into his tent and of packing and miniaturizing her unused tent – _voilà _they were bunk-mates.

He regretted his decision that first morning – when he tried to silently figure out how to get rid of his customary morning wood courtesy of a dream about the witch not even an arm's length away from him. Then again, as he softly stroked himself, it was as much a torture as it was a blessing.

Not in his whole lifetime could he imagine needing so little stimulation – it was embarrassing, and very, very, very exciting.

**XIX.**

Why Hermione had never seen it, she wasn't too sure.

There was probably a whole lot of self-preservation involved… that, or it was good old, plain fear. A mixture of both, she supposed. After all, the Weasleys _had_ done a number on her. And despite her having witnessed his protectiveness of her first-hand, even in relation to his family, he was still a Weasley, and she'd been conditioned to be somewhat wary of red-hair.

The Ancient Egyptians had believed that red-hair was a sign of evil.

Well, then again, Bill's hair was copper… almost bordering on blonde, actually. Strawberry blonde would be an apt description. Coupled with his tan complexion, earned by hours of working outside, _shirtless_, and his ocean-blue eyes, he looked as exotic to her as Pocahontas must have looked to Captain Smith.

It took them a month to travel to the site, and when they finally arrived, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief along with the rest of the crew. Bill set up their tent and admitted them the rest of the day to recuperate their strength. Given they reached their destination shortly before noon that effectively left them with the whole afternoon to themselves.

And for the first time in her life, Hermione _saw_ Bill Weasley.

It knocked the breath out of her lungs.

**XX.**

Whenever two people liked each other, there was a time of general awkwardness. Between the two people concerned, it was obvious that something was happening; that there was a tension building up. On some level of awareness, it was obvious that the other part returned the feelings of interest and devotion, and yet, despite this knowledge, most people succumbed to second-guessing.

_No way she meant it like that, I mean… she doesn't see me like that, right?_

_I can't really believe I just said that… Oh my god, he's not reacting. That means he's not interested, right?_

As the writer, I am pretty sure that every single one of you has already lived through this at least once, or will live through it at least once – it is the way things are. It's a vicious circle of sweetness and trepidation; love can be like that.

**XXI.**

Hermione was as reliable a digger as anyone else on the team. Delicacy with the things at hand, diligence, hours of quiet and hard work seemed to come naturally to her – she fit right in with the people around her, despite never having been involved in an actual dig.

Carlos liked to refer to her as 'The Baby' when she wasn't around – because, honestly, no one would call her that to her face – derived from the fact that this was her first time hands-on experience, but he still had to admit that she was a quick study and had devotion to the cause, which was, given they were only ten, a requirement to achieve anything.

**XXII.**

_Dear Luna,_

_The dig is fascinating. One day, perhaps, when you have the resources, you should really go along – admittedly it's dirty and stinky and Merlin is it _**_hot_**_ but besides all that, it is simply… breath-taking._

_Freeing a little bit of culture day by day, reviving dead treasures and finding inscriptions in languages so old that they died out centuries ago, well you can imagine that it is rather like paradise for someone like me. And just yesterday I found a pictogram of what strongly resembles a Nargle! Can you believe that! I enclosed a photograph of it, because, honestly, how often does it occur to find the pictogram of a Nargle at a dig?_

_Concerning Bill… I will not tell you that you are right – you are a Ravenclaw, as such you will realize that me, being unwilling to say so, means that you are. And that's that._

_I am sorry that this letter is a little short, but I am well and truly tired – despite the work being fascinating, I am not used to it and while I hold up during day, I sleep like a stone at night._

_Did Gundula arrive safely at the Museum? It would be a pity if she would have splinched herself in the throes of anger…_

_All my love,_

_Hermione_

Luna took one look at the photograph, and decided that this picture would be framed and hung up in the gallery – people could say what they wanted, but this was a) definitely a Nargle, and b) therefore yet another proof that they existed, despite everyone telling her that they did not.

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**Yay! Hermione and Bill on a dig! What could possibly happen?! **

**I know it's a rather short chapter, but please bear with me, we're nowhere near finished - trust me on that ;)**

**Reviews please!**


	3. Chapter 3

**I. Am. Late. **

**Agreed - it's a horrible negligence of mine to never update when I actually say it... I'd probably make a horrid writer in truth (probably the reason why I'm safer on fanfiction...)**

**ANYHOW... Here's the next chapter - hope you like (and sorry for the wait -.-")**

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**XXIII.**

A month later and the definite size of the dig was finally confirmed. Palco had finally found the last corner where the entrance into the mountain stopped and Hermione had, with Carlos' help, laid the entrance itself bare.

Bill watched from his vantage point as Hermione struggled with the heat.

Being the only woman on the camp proved a little… difficult, especially since none of them were tied in any way – and female company out here was, well, non-existent. Hence, Hermione had taken it up to herself to dress as modestly as possible and not contribute to the tension she already witnessed in the eyes of the men around her.

None of them, of course, would ever dare to near her in an unkindly manner, she was the brightest witch of her age, had fought in the war and was a friend of Bill – and more, as most of them were convinced. Coming on to her would end in the severance of at least three fingers… if only that.

Nevertheless, Hermione saw no point in provoking any untoward response – this, however, turned into a hurdle concerning the sweltering warmth. While of the finest and lightest cotton, her clothes were still long, still _hot_ and her struggle was starting to show. And while he knew that as the team-leader he should say something, he also respected her decision to not dangle the proverbial carrot in front of his men's noses.

It wasn't until that very evening when they sat around the fire after their dinner, Hermione having retreated to sleep, that finally Aaron spoke up. "You _know_ she's melting beneath those clothes of her.", he opened up the discussion.

Bill nodded. "And _you_ know that she's wearing them as to not provoke you." Only a few nodded – to the rest, this was apparently news.

"Provoke as in… sexually provoke?" Carlos hooked in. Bill gave him a look that said it all.

"You are all men and you are all deprived of female contact. None of you has anyone waiting for you on the Isles – and she doesn't want to make it any harder on any of you… on us, because honestly, I'd kill anyone who'd made a move on her and then we would be a-ninth only and we're already a small group, no need to decimate it as it is."

There was a moment of silence, in which the men in the circle contemplated his words – finally Aaron spoke up again.

"Personally, Bill, I have no intention on coming on to the Baby. She's as much a digger as any of us is – plus she's the medic, I won't even ask what spells she has in store that I don't even know of."

The rest of the men nodded.

"I'll tell her… we'll see if and how she reacts, deal?"

Deal.

**XXIV.**

Bill had gone out of his way to apparate to Edinburgh, get a good nice cup of tea for everyone and then back to the site – it was taxing, but worth it by the looks of content on each man's faces. Along with some _real_ English scones, baked beans in tin-cans and freshly fried bacon, it was a true feast that day.

Hermione sat between Aaron and Palco, slurping her black coffee. An espresso, he'd convinced himself, would not have been worth the effort of apparating. So instead, it had been black coffee… and amidst all the bacon, the beans, the scones… there had throned, solitary, a single Blueberry-muffin.

He observed her as she almost sneaked closer to the table of food and, surreptitiously really, stole the Blueberry-muffin from its position. It was only when she sat back down that she started to pluck apart the muffin, as she always did, slower this time, carefully choosing where to pick a piece next, savouring each bite of the sweet.

The look on her face was enough to pay him for his troubles… and enough to feed any fantasies for the next four mornings.

**XXV.**

He smelt like fire.

It was a bad description, of course, but in the morning haze, Hermione's brain did not yet work on overdrive and excellence. Instead, she chose the first word that came to her still disoriented mind.

There was something sharp about him, but not at all unpleasant, comparable to the stinging heat of the fire, something warm, and something… earthy, reminiscent of the flaming wood.

Today she had woken up before him, due to a bout of restlessness. She was growing accustomed to the hard physical work that digging represented: her muscles grew firmer, and her body more defined. It wasn't much, admittedly, she was never a beauty, always too something – it had been too thin during the Horcrux hunt and now it was too curvy, too much simply. But hey, at least she did not have to fear that any of the men would jump her, the way she looked.

Bill moved in his hammock.

It was clear that he was about to wake up and – ask her as often as you will, she knew no reply as to why – she closed her eyes, pretending to be sleeping.

**XXVI.**

Morning wood – as usual. And Hermione so deliciously close, her face turned towards him, eyes closed, hair everywhere. _Damn._

Why _did_ she have to look so irresistible? His hand slowly grazed his hard member as his eyes took in the partially opened mouth, remembering the way her lips closed around her fingers as she softly captured the sweet muffin crumb.

Biting his lip, he strained the muscles in his lower belly, hoping to keep his heavy breaths to a minimum.

Would she close her eyes if he were above her, filling her with everything he had? Would she give over to the sensation, or would she leave them open, hoping to take in every detail of him? A soft hiss escaped his lips – he hardly cared.

Minutes later, to the image of a peaking little witch, he reached completion, feeling the sticky mass of his come fill his boxers. _"Evanesco."_ Gone it was – gone was he, as quickly as possible; he could never stay too long in the same space as her – he always felt guilty.

**XXVII.**

Damn it, but couldn't that man… she didn't know… couldn't he just… oh god… get the FUCK OUT OF HER MIND!

"Hermione!"

_NO! _"What is it?"

"I… could you help me with a translation just a moment, I'm not sure I found what I found."

**Translation… sure. Let's translate what you did earlier in our tent to the real deal, yes? Let's translate ****_hand_**** to ****_Hermione_****.**

_Shut it._

"Just a second."

**I'm coming in a second.**

_Didn't I just tell you to stuff it?!_

**Why so serious?**

_This is not funny._

**No? I'm pretty sure there's a party in your pants, and I'm pretty sure we can translate that to his pants as well. And then you could join parties… would be a huge feast, don't you think?**

_Where do you come from? The gutter?_

**Well, no. I come from… Narnia.**

Oh god – she was going nutters. "So, where's that translation?"

_Can't you just go back into the wardrobe and stay there?_

**What, now that I'm out of the closet? Honestly? This is so much more fun!**

_What closet? I'm not a poof!_

**Just juggling with phrases a little. Anyway – I'm not going back there, now that I'm free, I'll stay where I like it, and I like it here, thank you very much.**

_Bugger._

**You sure you're up for that? I mean you haven't even-**

_SHUT IT!_

"Are you alright Hermione?"

"Splendid." She bent over the transcripts, missing the yearning gaze he gave her ass and the covert way he adjusted himself in his trousers as she concentrated on the photographs and his neat translation. He had, for a man, a very beautiful script – she would be very interested in what it said about his character… perhaps one day she could.

_Concentrate._

Yes. Concentrate – translation right.

Her eyebrow rose. "Are you sure?", she asked softly when she found the paragraph he was obviously _not_ sure about – stupid question.

Stepping into her line of view, he rubbed the back of his head. "Well… somewhat. I mean, it's not unheard of in our line of work, especially at digs that are _this_ old, but then again it could also mean _pure_ instead and then we'd have much more possibilities."

Hermione shook her head. "Unlikely. This one-" she tapped to a symbol, "obviously talks about a woman." Well, it could only be a woman, what with the generous circles added to the upper part of the body of the man… person… human, whatever. "And while wizards were more liberal at that time, something as a 'pure woman' only meant one thing."

Bill groaned. "A virgin." He pulled a face. "I had hoped I mistranslated that – we'll be having trouble entering without the blood of one. It's possible, of course, but the curses only get… dodgier and more personal than when the original requirements are met."

Hermione said nothing.

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**YAY! Another chapter! And another one coming up, because I've kept you waiting for too bloody Long ;) **


	4. Chapter 4

**As promised - another chapter. We're halfway now, since the whole story's split in eigth chapters (did I spoil?) so hang in there guys, you're almost done with my abominable time-keeping skills ;)**

**Enjoy!**

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**XXVIII.**

Having translated the inscription on the front entrance, the team started to dig out the rest, slowly freeing side portals, a part of a wall and a watch-tower. Hermione queasily looked on.

In the mornings, she woke up to Bill's suppressed noises as he stroke himself and, try as she might, she could not deny just how hot it made her. Seconds after he'd fled their tent, she would usually copy his actions and relieve herself – Bill did not know, he did not need to know, not as of yet.

The red-haired curse-breaker was dead set on entering the Village Hidden In Stone, no matter if any of them met the actual requirements or not. He had meant to leave her behind, she knew – she'd quickly told him to stuff it.

"It's not that I don't trust you-"

"Then why leave me behind? Because I am a woman?"

She'd known then that she'd cornered him, because, honestly, what could he tell her that would not sound like an insult? It's not because you're a woman but you're new and don't know your way around such things? Well that was bollocks, so he didn't even try it. Because we need someone at the camp? Instead he had just sighed.

"No… because _I_ don't want you anywhere near danger, but hey, you're Hermione Granger, and you wouldn't be if you weren't stubborn. If you promise me that you team with me…?"

It was a question rather than a demand – she had agreed. She hadn't told him that they'd need her.

**XXIX.**

He had expected more of a conundrum if he was being frank. Wards and Charms of this magnitude rarely lost their strength over the ages and yet, as they entered the Village, nothing happened. The stone wards at the entrance did not move as they had suspected them to, no Devil's Roots to tear them apart – in fact as they descended into the mountain, nearing the village, no ill befell them.

It wasn't until they reached the temple in the midst of the city that he finally realized why.

**XXX.**

"Who dareth to disrupt mine slumber?"

Her breath stopped in her wind-pipe for only a millisecond, as the statue, having been seated on a throne of stone in the middle of the temple, rose from its seat to near them.

"Wanderers." Aaron replied – she had noticed that he had a knack for poetry, and for talking, and especially for talking poetry and talking people out of what they really intended – if he so wished.

"And what do you desire, wanderers?"

"Our desire is to revive the city thought dead and buried." Aaron answered, Bill surreptitiously grabbed his wand. Hermione knew that if they wanted to get out of there alive with the village intact, she needed to act, soon.

"You cannot revive what went to stillness of its own volition. Except… can you fulfil my wish?"

His wish. Hermione looked at the man. This was Burdun, then, The Flying Eagle King – and Burdun had had one wish only, his entire life. Cleanse his soul from all the evils he had committed during the war to free his people. It was said that no woman would touch him afterwards, scared of the myths, scared he would kill them – Burdun, in all essence wished for only a superficial crumb of affection, the blood of a virgin.

The men around her slid into an offensive stance, Hermione did not react. And then everything slowed down.

Knowing that her offering needed to be convincing, she could not do this the usual, Gryffindor way. Burdun had been a Warrior King, he had fought whole tribes with only five of his friends, freeing, bit by bit, what had been enslaved of his father's tribe, gaining reputation. He would know a strategy when he saw it and would not leave in peace, but a sacrifice, made in the spur of the moment, for the love of not hurting him, it would be the first time in his life that he would be offered such a thing.

It was Carlos who shot the first hex, a version of the Petrificus, strengthened and tweaked – but it had little effect on the stone statue. Yes, it stopped for a second, before, rising to its total height, it broke down into six smaller statues – Burdun and his army, the Warrior King at the peak.

It was then that Hermione sprung into action – charging over a crouched Constantine, she leapt, ignoring Bill's futile grab for her and made a mad dash, almost impossible – her mind tried to reason – to shield the King from the slicing hex thrown by Palco.

And like that, silence settled.

Her arm burnt like a bitch, the blood dripping in a steady rhythm to the ground, Burdun behind her, Bill in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she glared at the curse-breaker and turned towards the King, offering her arm.

"Is it…"

"It is."

A stony finger traced the cut where she had taken the hit for the Warrior – a frisson spread through him, she could see it, and a small smile spread on his face as he carefully reached forth to smear the blood that was on his thumb in a vertical motion over her forehead.

"Then it is done."

And the statues vanished in a hurricane of sand.

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**Oh so heroic Hermione :P**

**Hope you liked it! **


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